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Having thus made my resolve, I was rather at a loss at what to do next. I had no remaining apparent leads, and my entrance into Mr. Loffemoore's study was highly impossible. When Mr. Loffemoore had returned from town, his highly suspicious nature of everything and everyone seemed to increase tenfold. He was more secluded, unstable, and excited than I had ever seen him, and he now never left his study, even for a moment. But, I had not to wait long for news to come, though from an almost unwanted source: Patricia Thuman. She approached me, quite emotionally, somewhere near panic or hysteria. I saw that the state of her mind was quite deteriorated, and she was in complete distress and panic over some unknown thing.
“Oh dear Vincent, I am ever so glad I found you,” she babbled onwards, “I was terribly frightened you had gone and gotten yourself into some kind of awful trouble. I am ever so glad you are safe! Now you must promise me, my dear Vincent, not to do a thing tonight. There's something dreadful afoot tonight, all the servants are talking. We aren't allowed in the mister's study at all this evening and oh, you must promise me darling, that you won't be a fool and interfere, I'm terribly afraid, you see. I knew I never should have looked in the fireplace, and after I found that horrible little cell, I knew I must keep it hidden from you or something awful would become of us.” I was shocked and indignant over the fact that I had been deceived by the young lady, and I cut her off before she could continue any further.   I    informed her that while I recognized her distress over my well-being, she would not deter me from fulfilling my word. She cried a great deal over this, and implored and begged me, using such terms and gestures of endearment that make me blush as I write of them, and made me only more eager to escape the ever-increasingly awkward situation. At last, she understood that I would not be moved in my resolution, nor could I accept her affections. I eagerly retreated to my room where I readied myself for the evening. I put on my warmest clothes, for I had already thought out my course of action. Gaining entrance into the study was  clearly impossible, so I had decided to watch the evening's proceedings from outside a study window. The one I had chosen possessed a clear view and an abundance of shrubbery underneath to disguise me. I searched quite avidly through all of my belongings for my pistol, but could find it no where. With a deep, sinking feeling, I realized I had left it behind in the secret room behind the fireplace, and had forgotten to retrieve it after my initial surprise. It was a heavy blow indeed, but I determined to carry through with my plans regardless. It was a windy night, dark and cloudy, and while I appreciated the cover it provided me, I was not very eager about the possibility of rain. Having successfully exited the house without anyone's notice, I stationed myself under the appointed window, and waited. I had not long to wait before I was satisfied. The low tones of Mr. Foster soon penetrated the silence in the study.
“She shall be here, have not a doubt of it.”
“For your own goddamn sake, Gregory, you had better be right. I have waited for two years for this night, and I will not be tricked into waiting any longer.”
“How could she not appear? She's seen her daughter in custody, and she's lived in the underworld long enough to know what would happen if she were not to come.”
“True enough, Foster, but I have not the time for any mistakes. This is my last chance to indulge in my obsession.” As Arthur Loffemoore said this, I crouched under the window and dared to look inside the room. Gregory Foster, dressed for an evening party, leaned nonchalantly on the marble fireplace. Facing him, in his customary armchair, sat old Mr. Loffemoore in his dressing robe, tapping his fingers feverishly, with a wild gleam in his watery eyes. As I ducked my head underneath the window, there was a rustle of leaves. I looked, and there, not three yards from me, Margaret Stillst stood up stiffly against a tree with a gun in hand. Our eyes met, and I motioned to her, but before I could fully realize it, a pair of hands grabbed her from behind and I witnessed Foster pull her through a window. I was fastened to the spot in fear, I could not know if he had seen me.

“Don't move a finger!” came Margaret Stillst's cold voice. “Give me my daughter or I shall fire.” Arthur Loffemoore's harsh clipped laugh perforated the silence in the study. The laugh finally trailed off into a rasp, and then he continued to speak.
“You cannot shoot, Ms Stillst.” He drew out the lady's name until his voice sounded like a hiss of a serpent, (which was indeed, very fitting with his current status in my mind) “Your daughter could be halfway to India by now for all you know. If you shoot me, you shall never find her.”  There was silence for a few tense seconds.
“You are bluffing, sir.” came the woman's steady voice.
“Is he, Margaret?” said Foster in his silky tones. I looked through the window once again. Margaret Stillst was holding a pistol high with firmness and finality in her stance, while Foster casually leaned on a tall-backed chair. Arthur Loffemoore still sat in his armchair, completely unperturbed by these happenings. At last, Madam Stillst realized she had become trapped, and lowered her weapon in defeat. I cursed myself silently at having carelessly misplaced my pistol.
“Splendid, Margaret. I see you have come to your senses.” the old man said jovially as Foster forced the woman onto a small couch and proceeded to bind her by the hands and feet. Foster lost no time in tormenting her as soon as she was secured.
“And so you appear again, Margaret. Tsk, tsk, tsk, time has not treated you well. You were much more beautiful when you worked as a whore.” She said nothing, but lifting her chin high and fixing her eyes on the opposite wall in a proud silence. “Well, since I am not good enough for you, Madam” he hissed, “I shall have to make good use of your bastard daughter, hm? Perhaps she has inherited her mother's talents.” The lady's bottom lip quivered, and she was clearly grappling to contain herself, but still her cold silence prevailed.  “I swore I would have you one way or another, Margaret, didn't I? I will teach your daughter to fear me, a concept you clearly never grasped.” The woman had composed herself now, but allowed a small triumphant smile to escape her grimly determined countenance. The man growled deep in his throat and made a move to strike Ms. Stillst.
“Oh, move it along, Foster. I find no amusement in watching pleasures I cannot take part in.” snapped the old man from his armchair. Unfortunately, at that moment, Gregory Foster looked out the window while my face was exposed. I ducked down immediately, but I could not be certain whether I had gone unseen. It was silent in the room as I crouched breathlessly in the bushes. My eyes darted every half-second and my heart beat loudly in my chest. I had a half-formed notion in my brain to bolt, but before I could carry it out, a pair of thick hands grabbed me and dragged me into the study. I blinked repeatedly, dazed at the light of the room. Gregory Foster was already binding my hands together in a chair next to Margaret Stillst when the door flew open. A breathless Petunia stood there, her face red with tears as she shrieked,
“Don't hurt him!” Foster rolled his eyes and released a crass sigh as he lifted his pistol and shot her in the forehead. While she fell to the floor,  the only thought I could discern in my head was that she must have been spying through the keyhole. Her lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling while her blood spurted onto a chair where I myself had often sat on previous evenings, playing chess with the very man who now held my life in his hands. The old man's gruff voice jolted me swiftly out of my horrific wonderment.
“Perfect, Foster. Now I shall have to have the carpets cleaned.” Mr. Foster only lifted his shoulders dismissively.
“The carpets could use a cleaning.” he remarked snidely. “What about this one?” He inquired, waving his pistol in my direction as I shuffled uneasily backwards. The old Mr. Loffemoore only sighed as if the entire world was simply a nuisance to him.
“Oh, don't bother.” he growled, “I've played with chess with him far too many times. I can't very well kill my only chess partner, Foster!  Oh damn it all, can't we depart already? The boat shan't wait forever.” Foster only stowed his pistol in response and glided over to the fireplace.  He stooped, entered, and after a brief moment, returned, looking as near to panic as I had ever seen him.
“Where's the girl?” he hissed. Every single body in the room stared at him. I was incredulous with wonderment. There had been someone occupying the secret room, a young girl, Madam Stillst's daughter, I now knew. I puzzled to myself how she could have escaped her prison. With a start, I suddenly remembered the chimney. Of course, the chimney! I struggled to keep my countenance composed. This now explained the noises emanating from the roof! “You claimed your hiding place was invincible!” Foster whispered, clearly riddled with fury. I glanced at the old man. He was pale and clearly stricken.
“I don't know...I don't know” he muttered.
“We cannot have the constables on our trail! Only God knows how long she's been gone.” Foster exploded. He sighed, massaging his temples with his spare hand. “Perhaps we can make it to the boat before they come.”
“No! No mistakes!” snapped Arthur Loffemoore. I stared at Petunia's lifeless body in despair over what would become of me.
“Remain still.” said a quiet and lovely voice, which would have been much sweeter if not so cold and detesting in its tone. Every eye turned towards the pale face standing in the doorway. It was a young woman in a dirty, ragged white gown, holding my pistol in her hands. Even in her disheveled state, I could she see was extremely beautiful. The resemblance between her and Ms. Stillst was very much stunning in its nature. I had expected a much younger child to be Loffemoore and Foster's captive, not a lovely young woman. A cunning smile played over old Mr. Loffemoore's face.
“So good of you to join us, my dear, but I am afraid your daring debut has arrived just a tad too late.” The girl continue to glare at the two men, and tightened her grip on the pistol.
“Ah dear child, drop that little toy. While you might have the means to injure me, Mr. Foster does not hesitate often. He has already done in that unfortunate girl. And of course, there is always your mother.” He pointed to Petunia's bloodied body with a sardonic smile. At the sound of a gun being cocked, I saw Gregory Foster's finger was already upon the trigger that was aimed clearly at Margaret Stillst's breast. A cold smile played across the man's face. The young woman did not flinch, but silently lowered her weapon. Foster immediately pounced on the opportunity, forcing the girl's hands behind her back, and holding his own pistol to her temple.
“The ropes, Arthur.” said Foster. Mr. Loffemoore stood up from his chair to retrieve the ropes necessary to to bind the young girl.  Before I could fully understand it, Madam Stillst, by cleverly maneuvering herself to the other side of the couch while neither man was paying heed, tripped old Mr. Loffemoore. An instant later, she pushed of its stand, a oil lamp, which been placed on a small nearby table. The lamp's glass shattered, while the oil leaked onto the carpet and soon caught fire. Mr. Loffemoore, being elderly and slightly portly, had not yet been able to retrieve his balance from his fall, and was badly cut and burned by turn. Madam Stillst then stood, still tied slightly below the knee, and kicked the gun free from Mr. Loffemoore's hand.
“Stop!” came a shout over the groans of Mr. Loffemoore and the general chaos of the room. “Or else I shall be forced to fire.” whispered Foster fiercely as he jabbed the pistol's barrel to the young girl's temple. Margaret Stillst was bent over, quite on the brink of retrieving the gun, which lay only a foot or so away, froze instantaneously. Mr. Loffemoore likewise stilled, although he continued to moan softly. The fire, quite bright at first, had now, by the vigorous movements of the unfortunate Mr. Arthur Loffemoore, been mostly suffocated. Every figure in the room stood quite still, as we all awaited, our hearts beating furiously, for the next movement to be made. Margaret Stillst looked silently at Gregory Foster, and her daughter held in his grasp for a lengthy, painful second. Then, closing her eyes, she exhaled, and straightened herself. My heart sank, for it seemed she was to surrender. Mr. Foster opened his mouth to spew some smug remark, but before he had a chance to speak, a gunshot pierced the silence. Mr. Loffemoore shrieked as he held his bloodied arm, as Madam Stillst stood with the smoking weapon in her hand.
“It is only a light wound, but might I suggest that you take your employer rather swiftly to an infirmary? He will die without proper care, and what become of your salary then?” the woman said quietly, with no tremor in her voice, nor pity in her eyes. Gregory Foster returned her coldness in his speech.
“Too far, Margaret. You underestimate my obsessive passions. Yes, I am a selfish creature...but what is coin to me when a woman is the purse? My heart is black. Let the old fool die. I shall have finally obtained my absolute fascination, Margaret. And your daughter shall fetch a fine price, as her mother did, working under streetlights late at night.” he finished with a heartless grin. The brave woman had remained as cold and relentless as stone until this moment but now I saw the lady tremble. I prayed her valor had not expired, and that we could still yet rescue ourselves from the grip of this possessive creature that stood before us. But it was not to be, and Margaret Stillst released the gun, where it dropped to the floor with a sickening thud. I felt utterly useless and worn, I possessed no weapon, and no hope of defeating Foster while he still held the young woman as his captive. I pondered over our predicament, and I reasoned that the only remaining means of escape was en route to the riverboat. However, I did not think I  would be so fortunate as to make it thus far. Gregory Foster had already killed one, and doomed another that night. I was of no consequence of him or his plans, and in his eyes, the fewer observers of his abhorrent deeds, the more convenient. While I stared at the bloodied and cindered carpet, I heard his fatal footstep as he retrieved Mr. Loffemoore's fallen gun. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them next, he stood before me, with his Daringer trained towards my head and a disdainful disinterest in his face. “But before I depart, I am afraid your small, useless role has been quite played out.” He cocked his pistol, and then a shot rang out.